


Aircraft Do Not Belong in Closets

by CasusFere



Series: Flash Fiction [10]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:17:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasusFere/pseuds/CasusFere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seemed like a good idea at the time. More humor than smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aircraft Do Not Belong in Closets

**Author's Note:**

> tf_speedwriting prompt: PWP

  
“Hey! Watch the wings!” Slingshot hissed as the shove sent him stumbling back, leading edges of his wings smacking against the shelves.

Blades smirked. “I’ll fraggin’ do more than watch ‘em.” He slapped the door control and stepped forward - not that he needed to step far. The closet was cramped enough for _one_ mech, much less two, even before adding in all the cleaning supplies stored inside.

“All talk, no thrust, whirligig,” Slingshot snapped back, grabbing him roughly. “Get your aft over here.”

“Just can’t wait to get your hands on me, eh, birdy?” Blades smirked, running his own hands up the jet’s hips.

“If I waited for you to figure it out, I’d rust out before- AHH!” Slingshot broke off with a squawk.

“What is it?” Blades froze in place, afraid he’d somehow hurt Slingshot with that shove.

“I think something’s jammed in my baffle,” Slingshot said, twisting slightly to check his wing, only to whack his head against a shelf. “Ow!”

“Feeling smarter all of a sudden?” Blades asked, smirking before leaning over to look. “I think that’s a mop handle.”

“Get it out,” Slingshot said through gritted denta, “Now.”

Choking back a laugh, Blades leaned in close, carefully extracting the handle from the flap. “Better?” He smirked back at Slingshot and gently messaged the baffle hinge. The jet shivered against him.

“Shut up and keep rubbing,” Slingshot growled, disgruntled.

“Bossy,” Blades breathed into Slingshot’s audio, fingers working their way up all the complicated control surfaces of the underside of Slingshot’s wings, teasing each flap and baffle and seam until Slingshot was clinging to his shoulders, stifling a moan in his neck.

“You fraggin’ like it when I’m bossy,” Slingshot rasped when he finally managed to find his voice.

“Fraggin’ right.” Blades grinned. “Also like makin’ you beg, birdy.”

“Not happening,” Slings growled, pulling back and pinching the closest rotor.

The growl didn’t seem to discourage Blades in the slightest. He renewed his ministrations, hooking two fingers under a flap to drag the jet as close as he could, his other hand sliding down Slingshot’s hip, his mouth going to the jet’s neck. “Fraggin’ gorgeous, you know that?”

Slingshot’s hands trembled on his shoulders. “Shut the frag up and ‘face me,” he said, voice low.

“What the frag do you think I’m doing, featherbrain?” Blades dug his fingers in for emphasis, loving how the motion made Slingshot arch and surge against him.

“Fraggin’ foreplay,” Slingshot snapped, but there was no heat to it, and his hands were moving, stroking down the transformation seams in the helicopter’s back and shoulders.

“Prima donna jet,” Blades murmured into Slingshot’s neck cables. “Everything’s always gotta be your way.”

“Only because you don’t have any fraggin’ clue what you’re doing, blender butt,” Slingshot growled back.

A quick movement of his leg and a shift of balance, and Slingshot landed heavily on his aft, Blades on top of him, cleaning supplies tumbling off the shelves around them. “Don’t fraggin’ call me that.”

Slingshot bared his denta. “Make me stop.”

“You aren’t gonna be able to say anything but ‘ _Please’_ when I’m done with you,” Blades promised, voice dark with lust. Any reply Slingshot had to that was lost in a moan as Blades found the thrust nozzles and slipped his fingers in, stroking along the side walls. Slingshot writhed under him, hands finding grip on Blades’ legs and optics darkening. Blades grinned. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”

“Fragger,” Slingshot managed, then cried out as Blades plunged his fingers in deep. “Fraggin’ do that again,” he gasped.

“Say please.” Blades smirked down at him.

“Frag off,” Slingshot snapped.

Blades traced a fingertip along the outside rim of the nozzle, reveling in the way the simple motion made the jet under him shiver and bite back a whimper. “Now now. Manners, birdbrain.”

“Frag you and your manners,” Slingshot snapped, then gasped as the hand not occupied with his thrust mechanisms found his interface panel.

Blades deftly opened the panel, lightly fingering the port. “What was it you were saying about foreplay? You wanted more of it?”

Slingshot’s engine snarled. “Plug in or get off, afthead,” he growled.

Blades’ engine revved at that and he fumbled at unlatching his own interface hatch, roughly snapping the the connectors into place. He dropped the firewall, and let the flare of sensation and emotion wash over him. He could feel Slingshot’s hand sliding up his rotor assembly, and his own fingers under Slingshot’s plating, feel the rush of pleasure and want and lust and _need_ , all flooding his sensor net and reverberating back down the link to Slingshot.

Their movements became more insistent, more desperate as the sensor echoes built, each new stroke, each twist and kiss and bite sending a new flare of sensation until their world went white with a flood of pure, agonizing pleasure, crashing through both their systems like an unstoppable wave of ecstasy.

Blades came back to himself sprawled across Slingshot, automatic processes rebuilding his firewalls as he rebooted. Cooling metal ticked under his cheek.

“Not bad, birdy,” he said voice hoarse.

“Oh frag you, blender butt,” Slingshot muttered back, but he sounded more content than angry. “Off. You’re heavy.”

Blades started to lever himself up, only to be brought up short by a shooting pain radiating from his rotor assembly. “Ow! Dammit!”

“What?” Slingshot lifted his head, alarmed.

“My rotor is stuck.” Blades tugged on the offending appendage, but it remained firmly wedged in the crack between the shelf just above him and the wall. He didn’t have enough leeway between him and Slingshot’s chassis to free it.

“So pull it out.”

“If I could, I would have already, bird brain! Move, I need to get lower to slide it out.”

“Yeah, great plan, except the part where I can’t move because you’ve got me pinned. Wings, afthead!”

Blades cycled air. “Frag.”

“...We’re going to have to call someone, aren’t we?” Slingshot groaned. “Great.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t get us stuck!”

“Hey, this was your idea! ‘Let’s do it in the closet,’ you said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ you said.” Slingshot glared at him. “I’m never listening to you again.”  



End file.
